Rhineland
by h0bbes
Summary: James himself is tired of politics, of Germans and Communists and all manners of walls large and small.


He falls asleep in St. Tropez and a gentle hand is shaking him awake in Berlin. Helen smiles tiredly at him, reaches for his hand, and urges James to stand and stretch his legs. Admittedly since the braces on his legs had been put into place there had been less stretching more decompression of spring structures but James Watson is a man of ritual and he appreciates her effort.

Summer in Berlin is nice really, a bit cold, but not frigid. The two of them dress in lightweight business suits and are escourted directly from the plane to a waiting car by a young man whose own professionalism was as grown in as the whisps of hair on his chin. He stumbles in his greeting, broken English, and Helen responds back in airy German. She gestures to the small animal crate she's carrying and the young man laughs nervously before taking it from her and placing it oh-so-carefully in the front passenger seat. James is entraptured as he proceeds to buckle it in and he opens his mouth to say something-Helen stops him, warm fingers splayed on his knee. "Poor thing's had a bit of an ordeal. Just let it rest, darling."

James searches her face a moment, contemplates the tone in her voice, and understands. "Anything for you, mein Liebelein."

Their chauffeur is staring at them through the mirror. Helen only intended to have a bit of fun with the boy but James is tired today and he has no time for games. "I think we've been sitting on the tarmac long enough, old boy. What do you say?"

"Of-of course Doctor." The boy all but jumps to put the car into gear. They do not speak to one another again; Helen looks out the window and asks him about politics. As they pull into the gates of the Berlin Sanctuary the young man tells her he'd like to see the wall torn down. Helen smiles softly and agrees "I think I would much love to see that. One day."

James himself is tired of politics, of Germans and Communists and all manners of walls large and small. Stepping into the garage his view of the sky is unfettered; grey and cloudy, the storm had followed them in. The air smells moist and there just a hint of electricity that makes the hairs on his nape stand up. Seventy-no. Eighty-five percent chance of rain. A woman with a stroller passes by the far gate wrapped in plastic looking just as unsure at the sky. Eighty-seven.

It breaks just after supper when they're in the parlor chatting; Helen graciously excuses herself, leaving him to discuss matters with Dr. Mieir (specifically the new occupant Helen had brought from France and less specifically passing inter-network rumors). Two hours later he finds Helen by the phone in the west wing living quarters, curled up on the window seat with one hand wound around the long chord. She looks more tired than she did on the plane, rigid against the deep wood paneling. She looks up when she sees him coming, doesn't acknowledge, but lifts her feet gracefully when he moves to sit down. No preamble, she sets them on her lap and James for a moment worriedly looks for where those bloody shoes of her's had gone, a seconds observation finds them in a careless pile across the way by the corridor valet.

The voice on the other end of the phone is, what sounds like, a series of mutters and grunts. James is lost but Helen clearly comprehends perfectly, reaches up to rub her thumb across her brow "Ah-already. Perhaps...oh, already? No...no that didn't work. Something must she's-no. If you just put her in her crib without a story she's just going to crawl back out and demand one. There should be one or two on the shelf just above the table...yes, that's the one. Yes. Thank you," James stares at the dimple that only just forms in her cheek, "Thank you, old friend. Yes. Friday. Good afternoon." She reaches over and hangs up the phone, twisting at the hip and digs her heels further into his lap. James grasps them firmly when she turns once more, cheeks a little pink and letting her head fall back with a _thump_ against the woodwork. "Naptime." she starts. "Well, I say nap. By which I mean the continual debate of constant forfeit against a three year old."

"Stubborn." James chuckles. Helen returns with a sigh. "Sounds just like her mother."

"Does she?"

Helen sounds skeptical, her gaze breaking away to settle outside, watching gloomy clouds dump litre after litre of water, a host of angry drops scattering light under streetlamps. He presses down on her left foot then, rubbing slowly at the center until he's rewarded with a very different sigh, lighter and content. "Yes." he says.

"Some days I am not so sure." Helen confides, reaching forward to stroke her fingers along his elbow, urging him to continue. He does, and it is a minute before James speaks again, plucking at Helen's little toe and wiggling it side to side. "Ashley is your daughter through and through. Willful. Stubborn. Smart."

"It sounds like she's got you wrabbed around her chubbly little fingers, _Uncle James_." When Helen smiles this time it is soft and genuine. James slides his hand up to rest it on her bend knee, tapping it twice.

"Another thing the two of you have in common, my dear."


End file.
